Slinky Jane

by Catherine Cookson

  Slowly, and without taking his eyes off the man, Peter nodded towards the jumble of pieces lying at the back of the garage, and the man, after following his direction, jerked round again and exclaimed, ‘You bought her! Who off?’

  ‘I didn’t buy her.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, she’s in for repair.’

  This statement had an odd effect on the man. He glanced back at the pieces which had comprised the Alvis, then in the direction of his own car, then again quickly to Peter.

  ‘The owner, where is she?’ His voice was a low rumble.

  Peter’s eyes had never left the man, and now there was a stiffness about his jaw that made his words slow of utterance. ‘At the Hart,’ he said.

  ‘Here?’ The man’s nervousness increased.

  ‘Along the street.’

  The man wetted his lips as he asked, ‘She’s waiting till the job’s done?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s wrong? At least’—he gave a shaky laugh—‘it would be easier to tell me what wasn’t wrong with that.’

  ‘Big ends.’

  ‘Oh.’ He pulled at his tie; then licking his forefinger and thumb in his mouth, he rubbed them together, before carefully following the knife-crease down the front of his trousers.

  If for no other reason, this action alone would have aroused Peter’s dislike.

  ‘Well, thanks.’ He turned to go, then stopped, and with his eyes on the jumble of the Alvis pieces he said under his breath, ‘I happen to know the owner, Miss Carter, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a Miss Carter.’ Peter went to the cash box in the office and took out some change, and when he handed it over the man said, ‘That’s all right.’ Then straightening his shoulders and adopting again his jaunty air, he made for the opening of the garage, saying loudly and clearly now, ‘Well, thanks for the information.’

  Peter jerked his head in acknowledgement, but did not thank him for the tip, for never had he felt so reluctant to accept a tip from anyone. He stood some way inside the garage and watched the man get into the car, and heard his snappy rejoinder to the woman’s enquiry as to what had kept him. Then, to his surprise, he saw the car swing round the drive and leap away, not through the village and past the Hart towards the road that led to Durham, but back the way from which it had come.

  So he knew her, did he? Well, and what of it? He’d had folks draw up here because they’d recognised the number plate of a standing car as being from some town in the South or in Scotland or as far off as Wales. The fact that someone knew her should make her less of a mystery for, apart from her name, the number plate which indicated Essex and the fact that she had lived in Norfolk was the sum total of his knowledge of her. Yet if it hadn’t sounded so daft he would have argued that he had always known her, that she hadn’t descended on this village at twelve o’clock yesterday but had been here from the time his memory first started to register. This quaint knowledge was not pleasant to him, for it brought with it a disturbed feeling as if there was something here he just couldn’t fathom.

  He went onto the drive and looked down the street, and his eyes, skipping over the usual people doing the usual things, came to rest on the Hart. Should he go and tell her about the fellow? The fact that she was acquainted with such a type did nothing to enhance her, and yet hadn’t he already agreed that she was well acquainted with all types? She hadn’t learned to play darts like she did in Sunday school, nor yet cope with men, in the same place. And she could cope with men. She’d had a lot to do with men, he could tell that. His arm went up in an impatient wave to Grandpop at the open window, and almost instantly the old fellow’s voice could be heard bellowing, ‘You, Jo…oe?’

  When Old Pop, very short of breath, came hurrying to the garage, he asked, ‘What’s up now?’

  ‘Nothing very much, I just want you to stay a minute. I’ve got to go to the Hart and see the owner.’ He nodded back into the garage.

  ‘That all?’ Old Pop wiped his forehead. ‘I wish you’d get up some signal, lad, when I’ve got to rush and when I ain’t.’

  Peter gave his grandfather a wry smile. ‘Wouldn’t be much use as far as I can see. It’s the old ’un’s voice you want to alter.’

  ‘Aye, lad, you’re right there. Wouldn’t surprise me if he weren’t to blast them all out of the graveyard when he gets in it. But it’s a sure thing there’ll be a helluva bellowing that day.’

  This comment on Grandpop’s future activities brought a short laugh from Peter, and as he went down the street and past the garden he waved to the old man. And Grandpop returned his greeting; then yelled after him, ‘You dry, lad? S’m I, begod! Mouth like an ash pit. Could do with one an’ all…a long ’un.’

  Peter’s answer to this was merely a backward jerk to his head.

  At the Hart he went into the main bar. It was empty but for Mrs Booth, and she did not as usual greet him with a ‘Hallo, there,’ but went on with her occupation of arranging some flowers in a vase in the deep bay window.

  ‘Morning. Nice day again.’

  ‘Oh! Good morning.’ Mrs Booth had half-turned as if in surprise; then she turned her whole attention to the flowers again.

  ‘I’ll have half a pint, please.’

  As if reluctant to leave her artistic occupation Mrs Booth stood back and surveyed her handiwork, and Peter watched her. There was something amiss here—she was on her high horse. He knew the signs all right.

  ‘Half a pint you said?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Mrs Booth sailed slowly round the counter and drew the half pint, and Peter, putting his money down, said, ‘I’ll take a bottle for Grandpop.’ He looked around the empty bar, listened for a moment to the sounds from the cellar where Mr Booth was busy, and then asked as casually as he could, ‘Miss Carter in? I’d like a word with her.’

  Now the nature of the high horse was immediately brought into the open, for with her hand covering the top of the bottle Mrs Booth became still, and very slowly through pursed lips, she said, ‘Yes, Miss Carter is in. Very much in, if you ask me. It’s now twelve o’clock and Her Ladyship has just decided to get up. Asked if she could have tea and toast in bed, if you please!’

  At this point Mrs Booth breathed deeply before going on. ‘I said people didn’t usually stay in bed here until twelve o’clock, and if they didn’t come down for their breakfast they went without. And she’s gone without, she has!’ Her hand grabbed up the money from the counter with such force that the muscles rippled up her brawny arm. ‘I’ve never known the likes of it! Coming in here after we were all locked up last night and then expecting to have her breakfast taken up to her.’ She glared at Peter, and he, flushing in spite of all his efforts not to, said, ‘Well, it’s got nothing to do with me—it’s none of my business, is it?’

  ‘Oh!’ Mrs Booth drew her chin in, ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No, Mrs Booth, it isn’t.’

  Her next words brought his mouth open. ‘There were two people drunk and roaring in the wood last night—I’m mentioning no names—and if My Ladyship wasn’t lit up when she came in at midnight then her eyes belied her and my eyes deceived me.’

  ‘Hello.’

  Peter swung round towards the doorway.

  To say that he felt uncomfortable was very much of an understatement. His mind was grappling with a number of things at once! Where had she spent her time from when she left him last night? And did Mrs Booth mean she was drunk when she came in? And she’d had no breakfast. And old Ma Booth was a real swine; but the thought which burst the surface of his mind was: That fellow could be her husband.

  ‘It’s a beautiful morning.’ She was looking directly at him.

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

  The girl having ignored Mrs Booth completely, turned away and walked along the passage, while he picked up the bottle, dropped it into his pocket and followed her out.

  She had stopped just under the roof porch. Her head was back and she was looking up at the sky,
and as he came to her side, her eyes swept over the green and along the street, and she repeated, ‘It is a beautiful morning.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

  They had both said the same thing before.

  As he stood uneasily by her side he was conscious that somewhere behind them Mrs Booth was both watching and listening, and that if he wanted to talk to the girl he would have to move away from here. What he would have liked to say to her was, ‘Come on down to our house and have a bite,’ but he could see his mother’s face if he dared to walk into the house with her.

  He glanced at her. She was all in red, a soft red dress, sandals, and toenails, and the colour made her face look whiter, if that were possible, and her hair more straw-coloured.

  In the lowest whisper he could manage, he said, ‘Would you step along here a minute? I’ve got something to say to you.’

  She glanced quickly at him, then without further words she walked with him to the far wall of the inn yard, her sandals making a loud clip-clop, clip-clop on the stones. And when he stopped she looked up at him with a smile similar to that of yesterday just touching her lips and said, ‘Don’t tell me that the vicar has issued an ultimatum that I leave in twenty-four hours.’

  He laughed; then stopping abruptly, he said, ‘A man called in for petrol this morning. He recognised your number plate. He said he knew you.’

  For some moments her expression did not change, and she continued to look at him as if what he’d said had not registered. Then blinking her eyes rapidly she murmured, ‘Knew me? Did he say who he was?’

  ‘No. He had a big car, an Austin Princess, blue body.’

  From her profile he could see that the description meant nothing to her, but as he went on, saying, ‘He was about forty-five, I should say, tall, black hair…curly,’ he saw her teeth drop sharply into her lower lip, and she remained perfectly still for a moment. Then she looked along the length of the village before bringing her eyes up to him. ‘It’s a small world,’ she said.

  ‘That’s what they say.’ But instead of this inanity he had wanted to ask abruptly, ‘Who is he, your husband?’

  ‘Did you tell him I was here?’

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t do anything else.’

  ‘No, of course not. Did he say he’d be back?’

  ‘No.’

  He watched her open her bag and take out a handkerchief and dab at her mouth with it. He watched her replace the handkerchief then click the bag closed, and he was waiting for her look as it came to his. But he was both surprised and piqued when all she said was, ‘Is there any place where I could get a cup of coffee in the village?’

  He seemed to think a moment, although it wasn’t necessary, but her changing the subject like that had flummoxed him a little. Then he said, ‘Yes, Miss Tallow does coffee on occasions.’

  ‘The little drapery shop?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’ll take a walk down there. Are you coming this way?’

  He swallowed before saying, ‘Aye—yes, I’m on me way back.’

  Together they walked through the village, side by side but not too close. No, he saw to that…there’d be enough chipping and chaffing because he was walking with her. He had walked with other strangers through the village, but she was different somehow. She was like nobody that had ever been in this village before, she was one of those people who had only to sneeze to cause an epidemic.

  They had an over-hearty wave from Bill Fountain; they had an interested peer from Mrs Armstrong through the post office window; they had a long following glare from Mrs Mackenzie; they had a loud hail from Grandpop; so it was not without relief that Peter left with just a nod at Miss Tallow’s door.

  She was a cool customer, he’d say that for her—nothing appeared to ruffle her. Yet when he had first mentioned the bloke she had been startled. But it was only for a second or so, she was a dab hand at covering up.

  When he reached the garage, all Old Pop said was, ‘Aye, aye!’ and Peter, in an unusually sharp tone, asked, ‘And now what do you mean by that?’

  ‘Nowt, nowt, lad,’ said Old Pop as he walked away, ‘just aye, aye!’

  It was three o’clock and Peter was standing in the middle of the road trying to carry on a conversation with Josh Turnbull above the rattle of his tractor, when out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother rampaging over the green. Immediately his mind registered trouble, for her walk was such as he had witnessed only when she was on the warpath, going from room to room in the house after a to-do with his dad. This was Tuesday afternoon and Women’s Institute. He patted the vibrating machine and yelled, ‘All right, Josh, I’ll pop over in the morning and have a look at her. ’Bye.’

  As Josh raised his hand in farewell and set the tractor moving Rosie came onto the drive. She didn’t look at Peter but made straight for the garage, which augured bad, for he knew that his mother liked to fight her wars in private. When he followed her in, Rosie was already in the office, the doorknob still in her hand.

  ‘What’s up, Mam?’ he asked.

  ‘Come in here.’

  He went in and Rosie, with some manoeuvring, closed the door behind him, which left about two feet of space between them.

  ‘What’s the matter? Is it Dad?’

  Rosie’s bosom took an upward tilt, her nostrils narrowed and she said, ‘We’ll come to that. Where were you last night?’

  So that was it. He commanded his expression to give nothing away. He knew his mother. If he were to speak the truth and say, ‘At the lake with the girl from the Hart,’ she would not only jump to conclusions but be miles ahead of anyone else in the village, at least where he was concerned.

  ‘Now look, Mam,’ he said soothingly, ‘I don’t have to keep a diary of where I go, now do I?’

  ‘Don’t try to sidetrack me, Peter. Do you know what they’re saying?’

  ‘They’re always saying something, you should know that by now. There’s a saying that goes, “They say, let them say…”’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any sayings,’ said Rosie tartly; ‘I hear enough. I know full well about sayings, I’ve had a bellyful of them in this village. And when they’re the truth you’ve got to put up with them, but this is lies. You weren’t drunk last night, were you?’

  ‘Me, drunk!’ His eyes widened. ‘No, of course not. Not on two half-pints I wasn’t.’

  ‘There!’ Rosie’s breath escaped in a faint hiss of relief. ‘That bitch!’

  ‘Who? Mrs Booth?’

  ‘No, Miss Collins.’

  ‘Miss Collins?’

  In spite of his determination to give nothing away Peter moved uneasily, and he turned his attention to the petrol-stained ledger lying open on the desk, and this guilty and evasive action sent Rosie’s relief fleeing away and she demanded, ‘Look here. Were you in the wood last night with her—the woman—the owner of the car?’

  ‘Now, Mam. Look, I can explain.’

  Rosie, suddenly covering her eyes with her hand, said, ‘I don’t want no lies. I’ve had enough of lies all me life…don’t you start. You were there and that’s all there is about it.’

  ‘There’s no need for me to lie, Mam. I just went to the lake to look at—’ he salved his conscience in giving the presence of the eel away by saying, ‘a fish.’

  ‘A fish?’ The unlikelihood of this excuse aroused Rosie’s anger again and had a drying effect on her tears. ‘A fish?’ she cried. ‘Huh! I’ll say she’s a fish, and men’s her bait. Did you know your dad was looking for fish an’ all—and Bill Fountain?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Peter now, with a wry smile. ‘We were all together.’

  ‘You were all to—!’ Rosie’s mouth sagged.

  ‘Yes, we were all together.’

  Peter was beginning to enjoy her discomfort.

  After looking blankly at him for a moment, she asked in a very subdued tone, ‘What kind of fish is it?’

  Peter moved his feet and he rubbed his hand up over his face, and after some slight h
esitation he brought out, ‘Look, Mam, it’s an eel, the biggest we’ve seen, and if it gets about Mackenzie or Crabb, or one or other in the village will have her.’

  ‘An eel! But why not?’ asked Rosie puzzled. ‘Your dad an’ you’ve always been on about the eels pinching your bait and spoiling the fishing.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but this one’s such a size and we feel she should have a chance to get home.’

  ‘Home?’ Rosie’s face slowly screwed up, and Peter giving a patient sigh, went on to explain as briefly as possible where the eel was going—that’s if it got there—also who had first seen it and how the girl had come into the picture. ‘Well,’ he said, drawing his breath in, ‘now you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rosie. But after a moment’s thought she was back to where she had come in. ‘Then what made them think it was you who was drunk and carrying on?’

  ‘We weren’t carrying on. She—Miss Carter—’ Peter stopped. If he were to explain, even if he could, what had tickled Miss Carter it would blow the lid off again, so with a little bit of quick thinking he said, ‘She was tickled about the twins. It was her who made up that song about the eel.’

  ‘Oh!’ Over Rosie’s face spread a slow beam. ‘That’s where they got it then. Well!’ For a moment she looked a little foolish, then again remembering the full text of what Miss Collins had made sure she should overhear, she reverted to her starting point. ‘But what made you yell out to Mavis Mackenzie?’

  ‘Yell out? I didn’t yell.’

  ‘Well if you didn’t, why did you call to her at all?’

  Peter’s head now swung on his shoulders. There seemed no escape, so he said somewhat grimly, ‘Well, this should please you, you’ve been on about her enough, I did it to shoo her off. We were coming back; we’d got as far as the stile—Miss Carter was laughing—then that lot came past and I saw in the situation an opportunity I’d been, I suppose, looking for. As I said, Miss Carter was laughing, we were by the stile, the moon was shining and the whole set-up was something I couldn’t have manufactured or put over with my tongue, not in a lifetime. I might as well tell you I knew I’d been a blasted fool over Mavis, even when I took her out the first time, but when I went and did it again, well, it looked as if I’d jumped in with both feet and I couldn’t see how I was going to pull out. And then—well…’